


The Colour of Despair

by Enjoloras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, M/M, Pregnancy, Trans Male Character, seriously this is sad as shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:28:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6127647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only when the building Enjolras and Combeferre had residency in came into view that Grantaire felt his confidence waver and his steps start to grow uncertain. None of it had seemed real to him until now; just another dream brought on by the green fairy, he had been able to convince himself. But now, as he approached the door, it dawned upon him that it was very much a reality. He had a son. A son by Enjolras, no less. It seemed almost laughable. Their child should not exist. Enjolras was righteousness and radiance, and he was nothing more than misery and melancholy. The very idea that the universe would allow for such a disharmonious mingling of the blood was absurd. </p><p>(People asked for a one-shot from my 'Hold My Hand as I'm Lowered' based on the idea of what if Enjolras DID have a child...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Colour of Despair

**Author's Note:**

> People asked for a one-shot from my 'Hold My Hand as I'm Lowered' based on the idea of what if Enjolras DID have a child...
> 
> The answer? Still sad.  
> This is 19th century Paris, people.

Grantaire woke with a foul taste in his mouth. His head felt as though it was splitting in half, and his body shivered violently from the cold. He was curled up on the floor, apparently having not made it to the mattress just a few feet away, and still clothed, his pocket watch digging uncomfortably into his chest from his waistcoat pocket. He groaned, covering his face with his hands; sunlight was streaming in through the small dusty window, blinding to his tired eyes. He groped around for his watch, and a quick glance at it confirmed his suspicions - it was offensively early. Far too early for any sane man to rise, and far too early for him to be dealing with such a headache.

He wondered for a moment what had roused him from the dead at such an ugly hour, before it came again; a sure, heavy pounding on the door that made the ache in his temples throb. _Likely Joly or Bossuet, calling to check on me and make sure I have not died in the night_ , he thought. _Have they no concern for a man's sleeping habits? Or perhaps it is the landlord, come to shake more coins out of me..._

“Leave me be!” He called, rolling onto his back and draping an arm across his eyes, “The fine Monsieur Grand R is not seeing any visitors this day! You shall have to make an appointment with my secretary!”

“Open the door.”

He frowned; it was Combeferre. He would recognise the stern edge of the medical student's voice anywhere, so knifelike it was in its ability to cut. It was quite a rarity for him to pay Grantaire a visit; though the not-yet-doctor rarely paid heed to his behaviour, it was an easy assumption that he must have disdained him. Grantaire could not recall Combeferre having ever come to his lodgings before, and pondered briefly as to how he had come to have his address. _It must be important. Perhaps someone has died. Perhaps---_

His blood suddenly turned to ice in his veins as he recalled the previous week, and what exactly it was he had been drinking to forget. For him to be blackout drunk was far beyond an unusual occurrence, but rarely had he such good reason to do so. His stomach churned with dread and he forced himself to his feet, supporting himself against the wall as he made his way to the door.

He opened it, smiling wide to hide his fear. Combeferre's expression was unreadable, lips pursed and brows furrowed.

“Monsieur.” Grantaire said, “What brings you here to the gutter on such a lovely morning?”

“You should come with me.”

“Why?”

“The child has been born. A boy. Do you not wish to see your son?”

Grantaire found himself answering Combeferre's question with another question; “How is Enjolras?”

Even in the chaotic haze of absinthe-soaked dreams he had feared the worst; his head had swam with visions of Enjolras dying in childbirth, bed-linens soaked with blood, the light fading from those bright, beautiful eyes Grantaire so loved. Several times he had woken shaking and sobbing, only to drink himself back to sleep, hoping to kill the visions with more alcohol.

Combeferre's features softened somewhat, apparently moved – though only minutely - by Grantaire's concern.

“Both Enjolras and the infant are doing well.” he said, “He is resting, perhaps too much, but he is eating well and sleeping soundly; a rarity for him. I am hoping he will be more recovered soon. He is very weak..."

Grantaire squinted, rubbing his face with one hand; he still felt numb all over from the drink, “When did it happen?” he asked.

“Three days ago.”

“Three days? And he is still so weakened?"

Combeferre hesitated, “It was a difficult birth. He lost a great deal of blood.” he explained, and suddenly he looked almost ashamed, as though he felt he had in some way failed Enjolras in his abilities.

Grantaire felt guilt coil in his chest, “Oh.” he looked down, “Why was I not summoned sooner? Did Enjolras not care for me to be at his side? I cannot say I blame him, if so. I would be a rather useless midwife.”

Combeferre's jaw clenched, “I came to your lodgings the day the child was born. You were too intoxicated. I told you to sleep off your wine.”

“Absinthe,” Grantaire corrected, straining his memory for the incident and coming up empty handed. In the back of his mind he could recall stumbling to answer the door, but nothing more. He had thought it was one of his dreams.

“Regardless of your choice of poison,” Combeferre said coldly, “You are being summoned again now. If you do not wish to come with me, I will not call on you again. Forgive my harshness, but I believe your son would be none the worse for not having you in his life.”

The words struck like a blow, but hard as they were, Grantaire was inclined to agree with the assessment. What use would he be to his and Enjolras' child? He had not changed his shirt in a week, he reeked of alcohol and sweat, and he could not recall the last time he'd eaten and kept the food down. He was not worthy of fathering any child, let alone one by Enjolras. Bastard or not his son would be afforded all the privileges befitting the child of someone as well born as Enjolras. Grantaire would probably be nothing more than an embarrassment to him. In his mind's eye he could imagine him twenty years from now, as smart and cutting and elegant as Enjolras, finely dressed and even more finely educated, shuddering at the thought of his drunkard of a father.

He swallowed hard, shrugging, “I am not fit to be a parent.”

“That may be so, but you are one all the same.” Combeferre said, strict as ever. Grantaire could see his patience running out rapidly; his teeth were grit, his knuckles turning white at his sides, “Do you wish to see him or not? Answer carefully, as I will not be accepting a change of heart. Enjolras does not deserve to be played around in such a manner.”

 _Yes,_ Grantaire thought feebly. _I do not deserve to, but I want to. I do. I want to hold him, see Enjolras' features in him. I hope he has his hair, his beautiful golden hair..._

“I do. Just let me grab my coat and hat. There's a chill in the air---” Grantaire said, turning to fumble with the coat hook.

“No,” Combeferre said, “Deal with your terrible state first. Have a wash, for god's sake,” he wrinkled his nose, “And change your clothes; they reek of absinthe.”

Grantaire lifted his sleeve to his nose to take a whiff, grimacing at the sour smell. He wasn't wrong. “Very well,” he said with a good-natured wave of his hand, “I'll be there within an hour. You may leave me to douse myself with cold water now, Monsieur, I assure you that you have made your point.”

-

Grantaire did the best he could with himself, even with his temples throbbing and the taste of vomit still lingering in his mouth. He washed his face and wet his hair, before changing into a shirt that smelled at least partially better than the rest. He donned his least moth-eaten waistcoat over the top of it, smoothing out the rumpled fabric and carefully arranging the points. It was red, and he hoped that might please Enjolras, since little else about him surely would. His eyes were ringed with dark shadows and his hair was in it's usual state of disarray, though he covered his curls with his cap in the hopes of disguising this.

On his way to Enjolras' lodgings he took a brief detour, buying a bunch of tulips – red, of course – from a flower seller and some of the pastries he knew Enjolras was fond of from the bakery. A peace offering in a sense, for the guilt he felt at his absence during the child's birth. In truth he would never have attended, invited or not, sober or otherwise, fearful that his useless and bedraggled presence might serve as some kind of bad omen. Aside from that, to see Enjolras in such a way would have shattered the illusion that death could not touch him.

-

It was only when the building where Enjolras and Combeferre lived came into view that Grantaire felt his confidence waver and his steps start to grow uncertain. None of it had seemed real to him until now - it was just another dream brought on by the green fairy, he had been able to convince himself. But now, as he approached the door, it dawned upon him that it was very much a reality. He had a son. A son by Enjolras, no less. It seemed almost laughable. Their child should not exist. Enjolras was righteousness and radiance, and he was nothing more than misery and melancholy. The very idea that the universe would allow for such a disharmonious mingling of the blood was absurd. For some reason this had had Grantaire convinced that it was impossible for them to conceive - if he had imagined it were possible he would have taken more precautions to avoid it.

He wondered what manner of reception he would receive from Enjolras, for he must surely loathe him for the situation. A child complicated all plans for revolution; it had already set them back by several months as it was, Enjolras feigning serious illness and retiring to his lodgings with only Combeferre to attend him when he could no longer hide the swelling of his stomach. The rest of Les Amis De L'ABC had tried regularly to call upon their bedridden leader, only to be turned away by Combeferre at every occasion; 'he is too sick', he had said, taking their letters and well-wishes, 'And likely contagious.'

Grantaire had been permitted a few fleeting visits, due only to the fact he knew the truth of the ordeal. Each time Enjolras had been indifferent to his presence; the last he had seen of him had been a week ago, laid up in bed, too heavy with child to do much more than read.

Grantaire had never hated himself more.

-

Combeferre was quick to answer the door when he finally brought himself to knocking; he raised an eyebrow at the tulips and the box of pastries, taking them from him, but otherwise gave an approving nod at his appearance and stepped aside to let him in.

“Good.” He muttered, “You look at least partially better.”

“Such a flatterer, Combeferre.” Grantaire muttered, “It is a wonder you are not yet married.”

“This is your fault.”

“That you are unmarried? I am deeply sorry; I will try to give you a more fighting chance with women in future. I understand that I am fierce competition, with my drinking habits and crooked nose.”

“That is not what I mean.” Combeferre said, not rising to the bait, “The situation with Enjolras.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, "Mine? Well, I shan't argue I had a part in it – absolutely not, it's one of my proudest achievements. A masterpiece, in fact, for me to have tarnished your chaste leader with my brush! But surely this isn't all on me. It takes two to make a child; you are a doctor, you should know how it works. He came to my bed more than willing, believe me - there was very little seducing to be done on my part. In fact I would even go as far as to say he was the one that did the seducing! And what mortal could turn down a god?”

“Not that,” Combeferre said, face now turning a deep shade of red, “You will see what I mean presently. He was supposed to send the child away the day it was born; I had made arrangements with a good family just outside of Paris. But he waited so that _you_ could decide if you wished to see the infant or not, and now...” he trailed off.

“Now?”

“Just go to him. He is in his room,” Combeferre said, “Down the hall and to the left.”

“I know where his bedroom is.” Grantaire said airily; he heard Combeferre make a disparaging sound behind him.

-

He expected to find the baby placed in a cot in another room, or at the very least a respectable distance from Enjolras' bedside. Instead, he found Enjolras sitting upright in bed, holding the child and talking quietly to him. His face was set in its usual look of stern thoughtfulness, but there was a softness there too, a softness Grantaire had once delighted to witness but that now seemed so out of place with all that had happened.

For a moment Enjolras was completely unaware of Grantaire's presence in the doorway, his attentions fixed so firmly on his son. Their son, Grantaire recalled.

“Enjolras?”

He looked up then, only for a moment.

“A boy,” He said, turning his gaze back to the baby, “I have named him Camille Marie.”

“Marie? Is that not---”

“My Christian name, yes,” Enjolras murmured, “But it is also my mother's. She would love him, if she were able to know that he exists. I can at least honour her in name.”

Grantaire didn't respond, instead lingering like a spectre in the doorway, unsure if he would be welcome in the room.

“Come here,” Enjolras urged at last, “You should see him. Do not stand there as if you are afraid; he is just an infant, he will not bite.”

“It is not him I am fearful of,” Grantaire admitted, making his way cautiously over to the bed, “You rather resemble a lion with a cub.”

Enjolras scoffed, “I will not maul you for getting too close. My claws are away. He is your 'cub' too.”

At this Grantaire felt all the blood leave his face.

“He is.” he agreed, as Enjolras lifted the child from his chest and held him for Grantaire to see.

The baby fit unsettlingly well into the crook of Enjolras' arm, content and quiet, as though he belonged.

He was a fragile thing, all small feet and clenched fists, with a few dark, shiny curls of hair so like Grantaire's. As he studied the child's features, longing to find some of Enjolras', he noticed that instead the child looked a great deal like himself. He had his nose and mouth, but Enjolras' eyes, at least it seemed. Despite the child's close resemblance to himself, Grantaire could not help but think the infant to be most beautiful. _Perhaps Enjolras' nature shines through him,_ he mused.

“It seems impossible,” he breathed, when he finally found words. He could not, in all honesty, describe how he felt.

“What does?” Enjolras asked, frowning.

“That I could have had any part in this beautiful creature's creation. It seems absurd.” Grantaire looked down; to even gaze upon the child was blinding, “Are you quite sure that he is mine?”

As soon as he heard himself speak, he wished he could take it back, for he meant nothing by it. Enjolras had come to his bed a blushing virgin, and though he'd left it well schooled in such things Grantaire had no doubt at all that he had been Enjolras' only lover.

His words had not been well received; Enjolras' face turned red, and he drew the child back against his chest almost protectively. For a moment Grantaire feared that promise not to maul him had been rescinded.

“How dare you?” he hissed, “What do you think of me?!”

Grantaire opened his mouth to speak, but Enjolras cut across him.

“He is your son.” he said sharply, “ _Your_ son, Grantaire. Look at him, for the love of god! He is the very image of you! How dare you even suggest otherwise? You were my only vice, foolish as I was to relent to it.”

“I'm sorry.” Grantaire blurted, “I am sorry, Enjolras, truly. I did not mean...I was not implying anything. I am merely stunned by him, truly.” he looked at the baby again, “He seems too glorious a thing to be of my making, that is all.”

Enjolras calmed slightly, a guilty look crossing his features at the cruelty of his words. Grantaire did not blame him. A vice was an appropriate way to describe him, since he was surely not a virtue. He cleared his throat.

“You said his name was Camille?”

“Yes.”

“For Desmoulins?” he smirked. Enjolras said nothing.

“What of his family name?”

“What of it?” Enjolras asked.

“Well will he take yours, or mine? I still do not fully know your intentions for him. Have you any plans?”

Enjolras looked away, “I do not want to think on it for a few days. I need to recover. It was a difficult birth, Combeferre surely told you as such. I am still tired and decisions about his future are not to be made lightly.”

“What of Combeferre, then? Has he any ideas? He said that he had plans made. Can he not renegotiate them?”

“I have not asked.”

“What about---”

“I do not wish to talk of it, Grantaire!”

It was with those words and the harshness with which they were spoken that Grantaire understood what Combeferre had meant. That strange tenderness mingled with ferocity that Grantaire had noticed when he first entered the room became so painfully clear.

“Oh, Enjolras...” he said, voice so quiet it almost failed him,“You love him...”

“Of course I love him. He is my child; instinct demands that I love him.”

“You have grown too fond of him. You do not wish to give him up.”

It was a statement, not a question, and he saw Enjolras' marble composure falter slightly.

“No.” he confessed; his voice seemed to crack as he struggled to keep it cold, “I do not. But I am not a fool; I know I have no choice.”

“You do,” Grantaire muttered, sitting down on the side of the bed, “Of course you have a choice; there is no death sentence written for you yet, save for in your own handwriting. You could choose life. You could make the change you crave through your wealth and education. Change laws. Fight injustice with the pen and not the pistol. See our son grow up.”

“He could not be our son, if that were ever to happen. He could be yours or mine. Never both.” Enjolras whispered.

“That is not the point. Think on it, I beg.”

It seemed selfish, Grantaire thought, to use Enjolras' love of their child as a means to try and change his mind, but Grantaire would have done anything, sunk to the levels of the lowest gutters of Paris, if it would keep Enjolras alive.

Enjolras met his gaze with a resolute look, “Even if I do have a choice, I have made it.” Grantaire felt his heart drop, suddenly heavy as a stone. “Change needs to happen soon. The people of our country suffer more and more every day under tyranny. We cannot just bide our time with these matters. If every man were to do nothing, nothing is what they would accomplish. There must be liberty for France, and I will consider it an honour to die for that dream.”

Grantaire let out a hysterical laugh, “And so Camille shall grow up knowing his father, mother – whichever - loved a revolution more than him!”

“Please do not say that,” Enjolras said, “I will write him a letter, to read when he is old enough to understand. And he will be left the entirety of my estate; despite his illegitimacy, he is the only grandchild my parents shall ever have. He will be well cared for, after my death.”

“I am sure that will be of great comfort to him.” Grantaire said dryly, unable to keep the scorn from his voice.

Enjolras flinched as though he had been struck, unable to look at him. There was a long beat of silence, and then finally he spoke again, steering the subject away from his plans for martyrdom.

“You were not here.” he said, “I was alone, but for Combeferre.”

Grantaire looked down, the guilt returning again, “I did not think you would want me here. You are proud.”

“It was not my most dignified hour,” Enjolras conceded, “But it would have been reassuring.”

“Then I am sorry.” Grantaire said.

Enjolras hesitated, looking at the child in his arms, “Will you stay, for tonight?”

“Stay?”

“Here. With us.”

 _Us_ , Grantaire thought. _He includes the baby._

“If you wish it, then of course I will.”

“I do wish it.”

Silence fell over them, broken only when Camille began to cry, quietly at first, and then loud enough to wake the dead. It made Grantaire's head pound, his hangover still not yet spent.

“Hush,” Enjolras murmured, awkwardly trying to soothe the child, “Hush now, shhhh...”

“May I?” Grantaire asked, unsure of where such daring had come from. He was surprised when Enjolras complied, passing the baby to him. He had expected to be refused; he did not think Enjolras would trust him with something so breakable and precious.

He arranged the child carefully against his chest, cradling him gently, “Quiet now,” he said softly, “That's no way to behave, is it? I assure you, crying about things certainly does you no good. I should know. And you should have your father's grace and bearing! Then again, he is a loud man, always shouting about liberty and justice for the people. Terrible. I am sure he screamed until his poor nanny's ears bled when he was as small as you.”

Enjolras shot him a dirty look, but Grantaire dared believe he saw fondness in it too.

“Come now, stop your tears.”

Finally, Camille began to quiet, his wails fading into a soft gurgling sound. Grantaire could not help but beam, feeling his heart swell when the child stared up at him. His hands were tiny – too tiny, surely – and his fingers delicate and soft as they curled around Grantaire's, rough and calloused and so shockingly different. He and Enjolras were worlds apart in all ways; it was a wonder to him they had produced a child out of their differences. All at once, such a warmth for the infant burst in Grantaire's chest, an explosion of sunlight amongst the shadows. He had not thought there was any optimism left in him, that he had shrivelled it all up with too much wine, and yet it sprung forth from him now, with the child in his arms.

“He truly is quite remarkable.” he said.

“He is.” Enjolras agreed, “I am scared for him, though.”

“Why?”

“It is winter.” Enjolras pointed out, “Children die in a winter's chill, especially as young as he is. These few nights I have not slept well for it,” he admitted, “I wake in the small hours, feeling the cold air in the room, and I must rush to his cot to check that he is warm and safe. I come back to bed with him in my arms, and sleep with him close against me. He is so small. It worries me.”

Grantaire swallowed hard; the thought had not even occurred to him until now. He glanced down at their son, who was now drifting back to sleep. He was too spirited, too much of Enjolras to allow a mere chill to harm him.

“He is strong,” he decided. It was an odd shift in their roles as foils to each other to hear himself speak with such conviction when Enjolras seemed so unsure.

“He'll be quite alright, I just know it.”

“You are so sure?”

“I believe in you, as I have told you before,” Grantaire answered simply, “And thus, it is only a logical extension to say that I believe in him.”

Enjolras said nothing to that, instead watching the baby sleeping in Grantaire's arms. Grantaire cleared his throat, tentatively handing him back to Enjolras, “Here. He belongs with you. Where should I sleep? Is the chaise in the drawing room still there?”

Enjolras gave him a perplexed look, “You can sleep in here.” he said, lifting the corner of the bedsheets. Grantaire hesitated. It was a large enough bed, and he'd shared it with Enjolras several times before, though never under such chaste circumstances. It had been so long since there had been any intimacy between them of any kind that it seemed almost wrong to join him in his bed. It was too sweet, too warm and familiar. Grantaire had tried so hard to distance himself from Enjolras, to tell himself he would never have him in his arms again. He had almost succeeded, and now here he was, tempted and tested.

Had he been a man of stronger will he would have told Enjolras 'no', that their affair was done with, and as such, sharing a bed with him – even under such innocence - wouldn't be appropriate. But Grantaire was not a man of strong will. In the time it had taken Enjolras to carry Camille to his crib and settle him into it, Grantaire had already stripped down to his underclothes for comforts sake and crawled under the covers.

It was painfully lovely to be in Enjolras' bed once again, enveloped in his scent, and for a heartbeat Grantaire allowed himself to imagine things were as they had been before Enjolras fell pregnant and before murmurs about revolution had turned to shouts.

“He is good,” Enjolras said quietly as he joined Grantaire in bed.

“Hm?”

“Camille.” he explained, braiding his hair nonchalantly,“So far it seems he rarely wakes in the night. He sleeps deeply, and for hours at a time.”

“He takes after me, then,” Grantaire mused.

“He does.” Enjolras said, rolling onto his side to face Grantaire once he had finished with his hair. They were too close, Grantaire thought.

Enjolras blinked at him slowly, “He looks so like you.”

Grantaire smiled weakly, trying to read Enjolras' expression, “Come now, don't say things like that,” he said with a strained laugh, “Its cruel to insult a mere infant.”

“It would be cruel to insult a babe, yes,” Enjolras agreed, “But I do not consider his likeness to you to be anything of the sort.” he lowered his voice then, along with his gaze, as though about to divulge some great secret, “In fact, I revel in it.” he said, “It warms my heart to see how much he resembles you.”

Grantaire felt as though his heart might all at once cease to beat. Enjolras sighed, closing his eyes.

“Not that it matters, I suppose.” he said, “I imagine soon Combeferre will have reworked his plans for him. He shall go to live with some family in the countryside and I will likely never see him again.”

“It doesn't have to be that way.” Grantaire said, though he was altogether unsure of where the words were coming from, “You do not have to throw your life away on a barricade, Enjolras. You are educated, you are wealthy. You can do far more good for those in need alive than you can dead.”

Enjolras opened his eyes to look at him, long golden eyelashes impossibly beautiful. For once, it seemed he was going to let Grantaire continue.

“A martyr cannot put food on someone's table. Live, Enjolras, and spread your knowledge and your wealth to those who need it. France does not need any more blood. Please.” he could not look at him now, fearful that that curious expression would have turned to a glower.

“If not for yourself or for me then for your child. He does not deserve to be orphaned.”

“He would not be orphaned. He would have you.” a sombre look had come over Enjolras now. He looked almost resigned.

“If you were to throw your life away I would be right there beside you.” Grantaire said, “I have already made that clear.”

“And if I asked you to live, and care for our son?”

Grantaire flinched, “Then, fool that I am, I would. It would be a cruel punishment for you to inflict upon me though, Enjolras. My heart would be dead without you. I would not be living, in the sense of the word, and that is no kind of upbringing for Camille. He needs someone who will have the lustre for life that you posses, not some miserable wine-cask simply waiting to join you in the grave.” It was the first time he had used the child's name so offhandedly, and it was strange to him how natural it felt.

Enjolras said nothing. He gave a small sigh, rolled over, and blew out the candle on his bedside, swallowing the room in darkness.

-

When Grantaire woke it was freezing cold. The fire had burned down to a few glowing embers in the hearth, and the crisp winter air had taken hold of the room. The sun was not yet risen, but there was a faint glow of morning on the way. He stared up at the canopy, head groggy, and reached out blindly for Enjolras beside him to find his side of the bed was cold and vacant.

“Enjolras?” he called, sitting up; he could heard wheels on the cobbles outside, a horse stomping impatiently from the front of a carriage, men talking amongst themselves. Paris was never quiet; she was a city of unending comings and goings, of fights and lovers and drunkards singing Ca Ira into the small hours, but even for such a loud city the sounds seemed too close, right outside the house. Then came the slam of the front door, accompanied by a cold gust of morning air sweeping through the house. For a moment Grantaire's blood ran like ice, and he rose from the bed, not bothering with his clothes despite the bitter chill in the room. He found Enjolras in the study, sat upon the chaise in his nightshirt, his face in his hands as sobs racked his body. Combeferre sat beside him, a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was altogether a jarring sight; Grantaire could not recall having ever seen Enjolras weep so openly. He was as cold as ice and as bold as fire, the rest of Les Amis said as much, and yet Grantaire was watching as before his eyes a god became a broken mortal. He did not need to guess what had happened. Enjolras looked up as he heard Grantaire enter the room, and his youth showed now in his expression. He appeared lost, utterly bereft, and above all, guilty. Even in their rawest moments, in fights and fits of passion, Grantaire had never seen him so human. It scared him.

“I have sent him away.” Enjolras managed, “I cannot let myself be distracted. I cannot. I am sorry...”

Grantaire's throat tightened, and he found he couldn't make a sound. He looked down at the marble floor, wondering if it was anger towards Enjolras that he felt or anger towards himself for ever entertaining the thought that things might be different. In his dreams he had envisioned the three of them able to live as a family. He had managed to tame the beast that was his drinking habit, and Enjolras had not thrown himself so readily in front of the bayonet. Camille grew up happy and loved. That much, he knew, would still be likely. Enjolras would have not sent their son to a house where he would be unloved. But he would never know them both – might even be raised to resent the rebels that wanted to overthrow the monarchy, if the family who raised him were loyalists.

“Grantaire?”

He snapped out of his thoughts when Enjolras called his name, pitiful sounding and weak. His eyes were red, and he looked nothing like the man that inspired such intrepid courage and fear when he spoke at the Musain.

“Do you hate me, for what I have done?”

“No.” Grantaire said. It was true; he could not hate Enjolras for anything in the world. He could have run him through with a dagger and Grantaire would still want to fall at his feet, professing his love. It was a sickening affliction.

“I am sorry.” he said.

“I know.”

Grantaire did not think he could stand seeing Enjolras in such a pathetic state any longer. It was not becoming of him, and Grantaire could feel his palms itching for the familiarity of a bottle.

“Come, Enjolras,” Combeferre urged, trying to pull Enjolras out of his grief, “You should not be out of bed. You still need to rest.”

As Combeferre led Enjolras back to his room, Grantaire sank down onto the chaise. His throat felt parched, in a way no water would quench. He wondered why he felt the need to cry and drink himself into a stupor over an infant he had only held for a few fleeting minutes. It seemed utterly absurd.

It was several minutes before Combeferre returned, alone and with Grantaire's clothes folded neatly. He passed them to Grantaire, closing the door to the study as Grantaire pulled on his shirt and waistcoat, still numbed by what had happened.

“I understand this must be difficult.” he said softly, “But I can assure you, the child has gone to a loving home...”

“Camille.” Grantaire muttered, “My son has a name.”

Combeferre didn't react.

“I am fond of children, you know, Combeferre?” he said, uncertain why he was telling the medical student this, “I am no fool, regardless of what leaves my mouth half of the time; I know full well I haven't the capacity to raise a child. Nor the funds. What little I have finds a way into the bottom of a bottle, or a game of dominoes. But I had hoped...I thought, maybe...”

“That Enjolras might abandon his work for a baby?”

When it was worded like that, it became clear how much of a foolish fantasy it had been. Enjolras would not have betrayed his beloved France for anything in the world; not even his own child. To Enjolras, Patria was his first and most dear mistress; by comparison, any warmth he felt towards Grantaire and their son was a mere fling. Grantaire hung his head, almost ashamed by his own childishness. He was a cynic by nature – how ridiculous and wild a thing that he should have allowed himself to dream so greatly, so unattainably.

“I do not see why he must risk his life.” he said, “He can do far more good for France alive than he can dead.”

“Enjolras is of a very radical school of thought.” Combeferre agreed, sighing. He hesitated a moment, before he pulled a folded slip of paper from the inside of his waistcoat. He set it down next to Grantaire on the chaise, not meeting his eyes, “This is the address of the family that is looking after Camille.” he said, “If you wish to visit him, you may. But Enjolras cannot find out that I told you.”

“Thank you.” even as Grantaire took the slip of paper, he knew he would never visit his son. He would stagger home, making a detour at the wineshop on Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, and toss the paper into the hearth. Camille would be far better off without him; he did not need the temptation to meddle in the boy's life. A part of him wanted to find the family and whisk the baby away to his own lodgings, to raise him himself. He was his son; he had every right. But for once, Grantaire would not let himself act selfishly. Without him, Camille would grow up in wealth and fine education; all that was good in him, all that was Enjolras, would thrive.

Perhaps one day Grantaire would see him, a grown gentleman crossing from the park or walking the streets with a wife on his arm. It would make everything worth it.

It was more likely, though, that Grantaire would go to die on the barricades beside Enjolras. He could not imagine living in a world without him.

When he met Combeferre's gaze as he stood to leave, he knew the young doctor-to-be had seen his decision in his eyes, and that he approved. He patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, “Go safely,” he said, “I'll keep Enjolras company.”

“Do you think that he will be alright?” Grantaire asked, unable to help himself. It pained him to imagine Enjolras as he was now, probably weeping alone in his bed, arms feeling agonizingly empty after coming to know the weight of his son in them.

Combeferre shifted uncomfortably where he stood, “He will have to be.”

-

It was two weeks before Enjolras went back to the Musain, supposedly, to Les Amis, miraculously cured of his ailment; it came as a relief to Grantaire to see him again, so fearful he had been that Enjolras might have actually died of grief. But the blade was double-edged, for when he met his eyes across the room there was nothing in them but the fire of revolution. He had made the most ultimate of sacrifices for his Patria, and now, in a sense, it seemed to Grantaire that his transformation was complete. He had spurned love and family for his cause, cast aside his own blood for greater things as Rousseau before him, and now resembled one of the revolutionaries of the First Republic more than ever before.

Grantaire felt as though he had witnessed the death of the man and the birth of the revolutionary in the study of Enjolras and Combeferre's home. He took a long swig of gin, savouring the way it left a burning trail down his throat. He wished he could be reborn the way Enjolras had. Or at the very least, recover from everything that had transpired between them. But he could not; he was not made from such fine stone as Enjolras. The brighter the light, the darker the shadow.

He would need more gin, before all of this was over.

 


End file.
